


Space Paralysis

by Kimra



Category: Star Trek, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alan Deaton Being an Asshole, Alternate Universe - Star Trek Fusion, Bad Flirting, Everyone Is Alive, Fluff, M/M, Werewolves in Space
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-13
Updated: 2018-10-13
Packaged: 2019-08-01 17:19:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16288652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kimra/pseuds/Kimra
Summary: Science officer Lieutenant Stilinski goes on an away mission under the orders of First Officer McCall. Captain Hale is the last to know.





	Space Paralysis

“You know,” Stiles says with some deliberation, “this probably isn’t smart.”

“Since when do you bother with smart?” Scott asks back guileless, and Stiles wasn’t sure how he could take that as a compliment, but for Scotty he’d try his best.

“I’m pretty sure I’m the only one that cares about smart around here.” He mutters rebelliously, and every single one of them heard him, because they all had their fancy mutated genes from planet crazy and he was still a boring old human.

“I want to know why Stiles is here.” Erica asks savagely because she might kind of like/love him but she’s pure bitch at heart. Stiles loves that about her too, just not ‘loves’ loves her. It’s complicated.

Scott adjusts his phaser, set for ‘stun an elephant into next year’ because they’re facing off Cravians and they might as well be damned elephants. “Because we need a good science officer and Lydia’s required on the Beacon.” What he means, and even Stiles knows this, is that Lydia is not expendable. He’s been redshirted. It’s going to go into the history books as that time he decided his best friend was actually a bigger psychopath than he was. Lydia is the goddess of space, blessed with knowledge in all fields, but with a particular fondness for engineering and science and whatever they need to know to survive what’s trying to kill them that week. She is the keeper of knowledge, the ace up their sleeve, the secret weapon no-one expects. Without Lydia they are dead in the water more times than Stiles is comfortable thinking about. Without Stiles there’s more to eat and a bit of peace and quiet. Stiles knows how this goes. “Besides,” Scott perks up, “what the Captain doesn’t know-”

“Oh my god, no! Scotty!” Stiles cries out as the shuttle hits the ground. And after that there’s not much time for shouting at his no-longer best friend or the away team that’s only just realised they are in direct contravention of their Captains orders with no time to regroup or back out.

 

Stiles does his job. Because it’s his job. But by the time they get back to the USS Beacon he’s got more Cravian gore on him than uniform.

Captain Hale is waiting for them in the shuttle bay scowling with his arms folded and ready to court martial the lot of them and Stiles waves vaguely behind him at the shuttle, trying to minimise the amount of goop he flicks about the room as he walks right past him.

“Not my fault.” He does say, just on the off chance he’s going to be stopped before he can get to a shower, but miracle of miracles the Captain’s scowl flicks from him to the rest of the crew still stumbling out of the shuttle reeling from the entire mess.

 

His coms go off half way through his shower, possibly because the shower has been going for close to an hour, but frankly he does not care.

“What?” He grumbles through a faceful of hot water. There is still something solid under his nails, he can see it but it’s not coming out and his skin is splattered with the same green colour. He’s been too scared to see what else is tinted green or consider the kind of chemicals it will take out to get green bloodstains off his person.

“Medbay.” Captain Hale snaps at him.

“Can’t I’m in the shower.” Stiles snarks right back, and then hears someone snicker slightly off centre, and god damn it he’d done that thing where he’s in private so he assumed the other party was as well. “Tell a man when he’s got an audience. Were you raised in a barn?” To be spiteful he gargles a mouthful of water and spits it out, hoping the computer doesn’t filter out the extra noise. The water he spits into the drain is green tinged and he’s so horrified with ‘ _it got into my mouth?!_ ’ that he doesn’t hear the response.

He does hear, “Medbay _NOW_ Lieutenant Stilinski.”

“Fine. But if Dr Deaton doesn’t have something that can scrub alien blood out of my pores, _it’s in my pores, literally in my skin_ , then I’m walking right back out again. Stiles out.” And to prove that he’s a proud man who is not beholden to anyone he takes another three and a half minutes in the shower before he panics that he’s keeping everyone waiting and has to rush to pull on a clean uniform and get to the medbay.

 

The entire away team is sitting around the medbay, some of them have taken up a bed, but idiots like Issac are leaning up against a wall trying to look cool. Scott’s got his own bed with the good doctor hovering over him, and the Captain on the other side of the bed doing the same.

“What’s wrong with Scott?” Stiles asks quickly, because no-one had been injured. He’s not cavileer with injuries, he’d made sure.

“He appears to be suffering from exposure.” Dr Deaton, poet extraordinaire, supplies unhelpfully.

“Exposure to what?” Stiles prods, and he gets up close and joyously sees that Scott is also sort of green tinged. He flicks a glance to make sure all the rest of the away team are, and _yes_ they are. He thanks all the greater gods for this blessed day. One green man, whose supposed to be pink, is a spectacle. An away team of them? That’s every day.

“To Cravians.”

“That absolutely never came up in any of the research I did.” Stiles counters, feeling panicked that he missed something.

“Which was how long ago, Lieutenant?” The Captain looks pained to have to ask, like he’s pointing out a very obvious flaw in Stile’s logic, which makes Stiles prickle.

“About seven years ago.” He’s guessing, the passage of time is nebulous when you’re not marking it and keeping records of it. He’s got bigger things to worry about, like keeping up with the latest reports from the other exploratory ships in the outer regions, and figuring out how to avoid those court martials that always seems to be trying to smack him in the face when all he’s done is point out facts and done what needed doing.

“So shortly after first contact?” Hale prods, and… yeah okay that’s probably about right because there hadn’t been many sources, just accounts of the first interactions, captains logs, scans from tricorders and more detailed scans made by a shuttle or two. So okay not long after first contact might be accurate. “Do you think maybe knowledge of the species has improved since then?” The Captain growls, and just wow that is clearly accusation he’s hearing and he’s not here for that kind of shit.

“Not on me!” Stiles raises his hands in defence. “I woke up this morning to Scotty, brother of my heart, standing over my bed saying we had to go, ‘Urgent Mission’ and save the ship, save Star Fleet and so on and so forth. It was very stirring, I’m sure, when not half asleep off a twelve hour rotation. But when the First Officer, your First Officer I’m going to add, says ‘jump’ you say ‘yes sir thank you sir, how do you want me to die sir?’.” He glares at the Scott who seems to have, magically, lost his shirt and seems to be kind of writhing on the bed. If the asshole doctor looked even slightly worried about this Stiles would have a bit of empathy, but really no-one seems all that concerned.

“Is he going to be okay?” He asks for good measure and is ignored.

“Stilinski.” The captain growls again and Stiles flicks his attention to the commander with the scowly face, because priorities. He’s never actually been sure what they call the gene mutation some of the crew (mostly this particular away team which seems to run with the Captains blessing for all sorts of shits and giggles - don’t think he hasn’t noticed thank you very much) were infected by back on Lupercal, but he is sure that Captain Hale already had it and possibly to a larger degree. Possibly born with it since his file lists it as his home planet and all. Stiles isn’t quite sure and samples have been hard to gather for his own experiments. But he is sure that he’s seen their much loved, much soured, captain-oh-my-captain, rip a Nausicaan clean in half once when all their weapons had failed back on an away mission and Stiles has enough sense not to poke those kind of rage issues with the blunt end of a stick, sometimes, _occasionally_.

“Am I going to be good?” He decides to try, because there is nothing on that planet that Scott was exposed to that he wasn’t, and Scott has magic genes that make him less squishy and less prone to _‘effects’_. The rest of the away team had been perimeter, but Scott had hovered over him and flat out murdered anything that got through that. Which was sweet really. If Stiles hadn’t been collecting every bit of data from the memory logs of the abandoned labs he might have actually been impressed and flattered. As it was, he’d been focused, and it wasn’t until Scot was literally gutting one of them hovering over him that he’d really noticed how close things were getting.

But he did his job, because it was his job.

And he’s regretting that now because Deaton, the only doctor that’s made Stiles want to murder someone just so they can turn the holodoctor on and get a straight answer, pauses his examination and looks at Stiles as if he’s only just realised Stiles is in the room.

Stiles gives him a flat look, raises a hand and waves with a dead, “Hi,” and relishes in the grimace Deaton tries to suppress. Life has few pleasures and Stiles plans to milk them all.

“Lieutenant Stilinski will need to be put under quarantine in his quarters.” The good doctor decides.

“Ah-” Stiles makes a motion to the very large room that absolutely includes Scott and the other green splattered away team, as if he wants to actually argue being locked in his rooms. There’s sleep in there, and he loves that shit.

“Captain, if you would-?” And he’s dismissed, because the doctors focused on Scott again, and Stiles is gapping like a oxygen starved fish when Captain Hale’s hand lands on the back of his neck and pinches down.

“Mother-”

“Language.” Deaton interrupts.

Stiles squints rebeliously, “-fucker,” and he’s so busy glaring at the back of the doctors head that he’s moving as guided for a full ten seconds before he tries to hit the breaks. Unfortunately, like an errant god damn kitten, he just keeps getting moved by the hold on the back of his neck and since there’s no help from anyone in the room still (his love for Erica dwindles down substantially when he sees her grin suggestively at him before the doors close between them) Stiles lets himself be led on.

 

“You know,” Stiles bounces onto the edge of his bed where he’s not put so much as decides to be because if he’s going to be in his quarters he’s going to be in the best part of his quarters, “if you wanted in my room that bad you could have just asked.”

Derek Hale, Captain of the USS Beacon, species Lupercalian, who has run more combat missions than Stiles has time to gush over, closes his eyes as if to pray for patience and Stiles is only slightly offended.

“Tell me that never works.” Derek begs, eyes squeezed shut, like he’s maybe in pain.

Stiles grins, “I’ll tell you tomorrow.” He offers and waggles his eyebrows the moment the Captain makes eye contact, mostly because it puts the other man on edge.

And yep it has the exact effect he’s after because the Captain looks at the roof mutters, “No,” and leaves. It’s… maybe not actually what Stiles wanted after all, he decides when the rooms empty, the door locked, and he’s left to his own devices. But he has time, and patience and until the day they pry his rank out of his cold dead hands he’s not going anywhere. The Beacon's not home, nothings home anymore, but it’s got Scott, and Lydia, and he has little bobble heads on his lab bench that defy the very rules of Star Fleet, but that no-one seems to do anything about (it’s possible aside from the Captain, who always looks pained when he steps into the labs so his emotions are hard to read, that no-one has actually read the safety manual for the labs - based solely on his experiences with incidents around the Beacon Stiles isn’t entirely sure anyone knows a safety manuel exists). So he’s comfortable, content, and if he’s hyperfocused on one more person who's so far out of his league it’s inexpressible, then so be it. The point is, he’s not going anywhere, literally. Because Captain Secret Experiment Gone Wrong has locked him in.

“Urg.” He throws himself back against the bed, rubs his face fiercely, knows he should start researching how to get rid of the green before it sets in completely but falls asleep instead. Honestly it’s a good sleep, solid even. He only wakes up from nightmares once and he falls right back to sleep almost immediately afterwards. It’s clearly far too good to be good.

 

He gets woken up to the sight of all sights, and sighs at the beauty of life even as he’s already slipping back into sleep. Which is when the vision of god's gift to wet dreams hovering over his bed prone figure has the audacity to touch him. Touch is nice, great even! Not so when your half asleep and went to bed alone.

He makes a very dignified and manly, “Urk!” Noise and swings hard. The result is embarrassingly emasculating as the captain (who is in his rooms!), not only fails to flinch but gives him a dry bored look. “Oh good,” Stiles sarcasms, “you’re real.” He tries to roll over and drag the blanket over his head in the process but instead he doesn’t.

“Oh good,” Hale mimics, “you’re not dead.” Stiles can hear the mockery, but he can also see the worry so he’s only marginally bitter.

“Was that likely?” He thinks he should sit up but his body feels lethargic and snug where it is and he’d not going to fight that now is he?

“You haven’t answered your com in twelve hours. Dr Deaton deemed it necessary to have someone on the crew check if you’d died.” Which is a lot of words for a not-shouting Derek. Stiles brain muzzy with sleep kind of wants to cuddle the words. “Now get up.” Which is an order and Stiles is so very close to considering doing it.

“Can’t,” he settles on, “I’m naked. I like to sleep in my birthday suit, my skin onesie if you know what I mean.” He waggles his eyebrows because the rest of him is hidden under a bountiful pile of blanket.

Hale frowns at him, which is par for the course, but it appears to be more question than anger today. “Are you lying because you’re being a shit or because you can’t get up?” He asks carefully.

“You guys are creepy, you know?” Stiles counters right back, “Why can’t I be naked? Why wouldn’t I be naked?” He sets his expression mulishly. “I am naked.”

Captain Hale unceremoniously yanks the blanket off Stiles, and he is mortally offended and embarrassed all at once, because he’s still in his uniform, and he’s in bed, and what if he had been naked? That one bares asking, so he does, loudly. Captain Stoic, however, ignores him and presses his coms badge.

“Hale to Deaton,” he says over the noise and when Stiles ups the volume, because he’s been ignored, a hand claps over his mouth to muffle the sound. Which is super rude, and Stiles licks the hand in retaliation but is not released. After that, frankly, Stiles isn’t sure what he can do but glare.

“Captain?” Deaton’s disembodied voice sounding curious.

“Lieutenant Stiles appears to be having trouble moving.”

“I can move!” He muffles against the hand angrily, “I just don’t want to.” To prove his point, he remains exactly where he is.

“But he’s still vocal. Hm, very well, if it’s not too much trouble, Captain, please bring him to medbay. Deaton out.”

Stiles glares at the captain mutinously, but he doesn’t try an extract himself, only because he doesn’t want to. The captain frowns down, not at him so much as the situation, and Stiles shows his teeth in a mockery of a smile. It does nothing but it makes him feel better.

Hale comes to a decision, which is good because Stiles is tired and glaring and sneering takes effort he’d rather use sleeping. But instead of leaving him (Stiles was hopeful, okay?) Captain freakin Hale kneels on the side of his bed, leans over him, (“Wow there,” Stiles says with animation, totally on board for whatever's happening that involves this man in his bed) and spreads the blanket out along Stiles side. Stiles frowns, especially as the captain retreats back off the bed, and that frown is squished and completely ruined when the asshole pushes two hands under his side and _rolls_ him face first onto the blanket.

Stiles makes an unmanly noise he’d rather forget and then makes a lot more noises as the captain of a real live star ship keeps rolling him into the blanket until he’s wrapped up tight like a dead body in a rug.

“No!” Stiles protests, but just like everyone else today Hale ignores him, and to add insult to injury Captain Contrary scoops him up in his arms, like some god damn bride in an old Earth movie, and carries him out of his quarters into the corridor where there are _people_. “I’m gonna kill you.” Stiles shouts as quietly as he can, because he does not want to draw a bigger crowd than has already seen his burrito wrapped green ass being carried by their overly attractive captain to god knows where.

“No you aren’t.” Is Hale’s easy response.

“I am,” Stiles grits, “I’m going to wait until you’re asleep and smother you with a pillow.

“You’ve never been in my quarters.” He’s reminded, which is kind of just flat out rude, but Stiles doesn’t care he’s been manhandled, in a literal sense, just because he didn’t want to get out of his, softer-than-is-physically-possible, bed. Who ever wants to get out of bed?

“I will,” Stiles mutters angrily, “eventually.” And he’s close, okay? He’s bundled up like a Stiles filled sausage roll but his face is really close to Derek’s and he hears the little laugh, sees the tiniest twitch of lips and even his basic human hearing catches the, “Probably,” that the commanding officer of the USS Beacon admits like it’s inevitable, like it’s going to happen. Like one day he fully expects Stiles to worm his way in past his defences and into his bed, and if Stiles could move he would swoon, or at least do a mockery of it because his heart stutters and falters then kicks in like a racehorse because: What - The - Hell.

“I’m going to marry you.” He admits, because he realised it just then, and his brain to mouth filter has shorted out. Derek Hale stalls in his stride, looks down panicked for half a breath and just as quickly he’s moving towards the medbay again, like the moment didn’t happen. Stiles feels bold, brave, and completely unable to move, but that’s beside the fact. “Do you do that?” He breathes, hopelessly unsure, “get married? On your planet?” He can’t seem to stop, “Because I’m adaptable!” He promises because he’ll learn, whatever the hell he needs to, because he is going to marry (or whatever his planetary equivalent is) Captain Derek Hale if it kills him.

They reach the medbay before the man answers, and Stiles is perturbed as he’s deposited, blankets and all, on one of the beds and Dr Deaton leans over him with a tricorder and performs a series of scans he probably should have done when Stiles first came in. But whatever, apparently the plain old boring humans don’t warrant as much interest as the captains favourite away team and their mutated genes.

“So, dying?” Stiles asks when the silence from Derek seems too awkward to contemplate, and the silence from the doctor is jarring his nerves. The doctor looks at him thoughtfully and runs through a series of questions before he walking off to run further tests. The rest of the away team are asleep around the room, Stiles can see that without moving his head, which is good, because he can’t seem to move his head. He tries not to think about that at all, because it has every potential of being _too much_ but that leaves him with Mr Silent and Unhelpful.

“Totally willing to learn.” Stiles says apropos of nothing, because there is no silence he wont find awkward. “Just point me in the right direction. Not that you even need to do that. I’ll find it. I’m really good at research, which is good, because I’m a science officer. Which you know, because your the captain. Which you also know.” The silence is looking so much nicer now he’s faced with the alternative, but he can’t seem to stop himself. “I mean, I don’t know what happened to Scott and the others yet,” he continues despite the part of him that’s shouting ‘stop no don’t do it’. “But it’s what I do, I figure things out. So I’m going to figure it out, it’ll just take time.”

“I know,” He’s interrupted, thank god, “that’s why you’re still on my ship despite all your insubordination.”

“I am the most respectful.” He argues, ignoring the number of times he has been dragged into the brig since leaving the academy. He’s gotten to be old friends with those cells and isn’t sure why people complain about them so much. Aside from absolutely mind numbing boredom they’re perfectly comfortable.

He gets to see that smile again, that one that he’s never seen before and he’s not sure what to do with this turn of events. But he’s going to cling to them if nothing else. Cling as hard as he can, which the poor captain is going to find, is very hard.

Deaton comes back with a padd and he looks exactly the same as he always does because the man never learned to emote anything aside from ‘mysterious’. “It looks like a mild paralysis.”

“Mild?” Hale sounds disbelieving.

“He can still breath, and talk, from the sounds of it. So very mild as far as paralysis goes.” the doctor checks the readouts again, “Unlike the others his physiology interpreted the toxins as a sedative rather than a stimulant. Judging by the time it took to burn out of their systems I’d say Lieutenant Stilinski will be like this for at least another 36 hours. It would be best for him to remain here for observation and sleep off the sedative.”

“Ah no, I’m not staying here for that long.” Stiles argued which did little when he wasn’t moving to back up the protest. He saw how this was going to go and was not impressed.

“Of course not,” Stiles nemesis in the form of the only competent medically trained professional on board replied, “when you’re ready Lieutenant Stilinski, feel free to leave.” Then the chump smiled politely and went back into his office.

“I might actually kill him.” Stiles announces to several comatose patients and the actual captain of the ship. One day, he knows, he’s going to talk himself into an early grave. In the meantime he’s just going to suffer mortifying embarrassment constantly until that blessed release from his own idiocy.

“Don’t, the hologram is worse.” Is the surprising answer and Stiles dissects if that’s encouraging or not, and decides it is even if he’s sure it’s a lie.

The silence that follows is awkward again, but Stiles has cottoned on to not letting himself break it, not today at least, not so soon since the last blunder. It pitter patters in his chest, the need to speak, to break it up and drown the anxiety with words even if they are all the wrong ones. But he can’t afford another pile of word vomit right now. He doesn’t think he’d recover and there’s already too much to recover from in this mess.

“I have to go.” Captain Hale states around the time Stiles thinks he might actually break and start waxing poetic about thick eyebrows and arm muscles. Hale grimaces and it’s reassuring in the same way a lot of his reactions were in the corridors. Stiles lets himself bask in that again, but now that it’s been said he thinks it’s strange that the highest ranking person on the entire ship was the one who (he will never live it down) carried him to medbay.

“Why are you even here?” He demands sharply, then “No!” because that had sounded very very bad, “No. I mean. Why were _you_ sent to my quarters?”

“Deaton was concerned another human coming into contact with the toxins would just knock them out as well. I was the safest bet with my-” he falters on whatever word he was about to use and instead motions vaguely to the room of sleeping crew men. “It made sense, from a contaminated point of view.” Which isn’t the most romantic thing Stiles has ever heard (he was hoping Hale had volunteered like a knight in shining armor) but at least it made sense. Captain’s were, generally, busy people.

“Yeah okay,” he agreed, and relaxed amidst his blanket burrito, his nest for the next few days, apparently. “Well, better get back to, you know, running your ship and all that.” Stiles isn’t bitter at all. The man hovering over him rolls his eyes like he’s long suffering, and then the man leans down over him, hovers an inch from his face, so close Stiles almost goes cross eyed trying to keep track of him.

“We do, by the way.” Captain Hale whispers, and he looks unrealistically soft in a way that makes Stiles want to bundle him up and stand guard over him with a phaser.

“What?” He asks dry mouthed.

“Have marriage.” Hale clarifies. “On my planet.”

“Oh.” Stiles barely breathes, afraid to break this moment, afraid Hale will realise how much he’s giving away here. How close he is.

“But,” he wets his lips, and Stiles can’t think past how close they are, how this would already be a kiss if he wasn’t literally paralyzed on a medbay bed. Hale’s mouth quicks up, his eyes crinkle, as if he has the right to do that, and he pulls back sans-kiss much to Stiles consternation, “Let's start with dinner.”

“Kill you.” Stiles promises annoyed. And all he gets in reply is a belly rich laugh and the warmth that kindles inside his chest as he drifts back to sleep.


End file.
